


Fretting

by elevenelvenswords



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay, angbang, implied angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenelvenswords/pseuds/elevenelvenswords
Summary: Melkor's absence is not something Mairon can easily overlook.





	Fretting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crackinthecup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/gifts).



The inhabitants of Angband were settling down to their business, distant chattering and murmurs echoing from somewhere bellow. The raspy northern winds clawed at the lieutenant’s chambers, located in the uppermost wing of one of the mighty towers emerging from the darkest underground pits, strategically dug underneath the peripheries of the fortress’ main buildings.

Naturally, it had been Mairon who peered thoughtfully at the maps and sketches spread across the desk, relentlessly looking for the best way he could lay out the grandiose plans, back when his master’s ancient stronghold Utumno stood. Long he had inspected the skeletons of possible future roots of the towers his captains had presented him with. His crafty hands skimmed down the moulds neatly arrayed upon a small wooden table placed amid his room as his eyes stood red and tired and, circled by dark, prominent bags, they expressed the Maia’s exhaustion quite clearly, busy as he was with providing his master with the finest architecture that Angband could have. Many a time the other Maiar offered their help, hoping against hope that their lieutenant would finally take a break from all of the hard work, that he would finally get some rest and attend to other less significant duties. Yet Mairon decided to push himself, like he always did, and refused the hands outstretched at him, politely at first, and sharply as his hard work was drawing to an end.

Proudly he stood before his master then, finally giving voice to all of the wondrous, spectacular ideas he had kept in mind ere then. And such ardor, such raw passion rang in his voice as he eagerly explained to his Lord what the new fortress would look like, that Melkor found himself smiling down at him.

One of the aspects he had never quite appreciated about the interior of those colossal towers projecting as spears from the barren ground, was how cold it could be inside of them. Had he not ordered his underlings build him a fireplace in his chambers and quarters, he would surely be freezing now. But the fires were burning low, logs softly cracking in the warm embrace of the delicate flames, Mairon’s long sigh being he only sound within the room to disturb the harmonious mating between said logs and flames. He was still wondering how he got himself in this embarrassing posture: left hand languidly stroking up and down his erect length, back arched clean off the mattress drenched in his sweat, mouth agape and eyes staring absently up at the dark ceiling. In fact, he could recall it, if he were to gather enough courage to him to face the truth: he was missing his master.

For whatever reason, Melkor had not called him to his chambers in a long time. An unbearably long time. Days of waiting started to make him mildly wanton, flashes of curiosity and arousal electrifying him every now and then at the sight of his Lord, yet he was quickly able to brush them off. Days turned into weeks, which somehow managed to set true desire ablaze within him, arousal churning in his innards, twisting down in his belly and warming up his loins whenever his master happened to bestow a fleeting touch upon him, be it a pat on the shoulders, a friendly grasp on the upper arm or the mere accidental brush of their fingers as he handed his master some parchments. Hard he tried to smother those feelings, tried to drown out that traitorous part of him which nearly forced him down to his knees before his master in order to plead, to beg to be touched, to be used. Four months passed, and the mere presence of Melkor became all too much to bear. He longed to be flipped over, face down on the bedcovers muffling his screams of pleasure, he longed after his master’s rough touch upon him, he longed to be held down by the throat and bloody fucked-

“Ah!”

A filthy moan rumbled, slipping past his lips almost without notice, and how he wished that his master’s teasing hand would be there, stroking him, instead of his own.

Wordlessly he shifted in the silky pelts on his bed, and it creaked beneath his weight. His hand moved up slowly to rest on his bare abdomen, heaving as it was with his ragged panting, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to slip his hand back down and take himself in hand once more. For what would be there to win, should he pump his cock recklessly like that?

Nay, he was trying to delay the finale for as long as possible. Just like his master would do.

A hiss caught somewhere between pleasure and pain wormed its way from his throat once his fingers found their way up to his nipples. Shamelessly he tossed back his head whilst he rolled them between his fingertips, as such sensitive flesh was coaxed into hardness. Desperately he tried to recall every delicious little touch of his master upon his trembling body. Where blackened fingers should have traced down the line of his hips, there were only his slender, milky-white ones. Little crescents he dug in his right palm and his eyes fluttered open at the light touch over his engorged tip, finding it wet and dripping.

He let out a loud gasp as he smeared the pre-come all over his twitching cock, and how his thighs quivered due to the self-restraint he was tormenting himself with.

For that is what his beloved master always did, was it not?

All of a sudden, the images that kept haunting him throughout all those awful months, throughout all the war meetings, of him bucking helplessly beneath the Vala’s bulk, of the Vala’s erection sheathed impossibly deep inside of him, became overwhelming.

Shakily, he managed to put his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them fervently as though they were Melkor’s, and pitiful, needy moans and groans he threw at the painful emptiness of his chambers at the moment that those well slickened fingers ghosted just about his entrance. And oh, how his cheeks flushed red at the whine that punched out of his lungs as he finally breached himself.

“Oh… S-shit…” he mewled, his face red with the debasement of it and his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside of him.

By the time he found his sweet spot, he had lost any trace of self-control. Shiny beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and chest, all the while translucent fluid dribbled from his erection, ridged by needy veins pulsating underneath his thin skin.

Again and again he allowed his fingers slip in that warm cavity, wet and twitching as it was, and every time he hit that little bundle of nerves his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Eru knows what dirty fantasies focused on his master crossed his mind then, as he swore and his hips bucked and his noises of pleasure intensified. Suddenly, dark veils of mist clouded his mind, and his master was doing all of those wondrous things at once: he was rimming him, teasing him in those torturous ways that only he knew, but he was also forcing him to kneel and take him in his mouth, yet no, no, he was also choking him, and he was fucking him, he was making him beg and squirm hopelessly, and there was also a riding crop lapping hungrily at his buttocks and-

Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer. Erection caught in one hand and his prostate stimulated by two of his other fingers, he fucked himself until he could feel it. That familiar clench of muscles, the trembling in his lower body.

Within seconds, he was coming.

“Oh p-please! Please!” he screamed aimlessly as he spilled himself onto the sheets, onto his chest, hot semen spurting with unexpected eagerness. He kept coming for seconds, wave after wave of crushing, exquisite pleasure drowning him as he (or perhaps his master) drew the last throes of orgasm from his utterly spent body.

It took minutes on end for his breathing to level. Mairon could do naught but lie there, tired, sleepy, yet confused, as in a haze, before he could suddenly realize something crucial and terrifying: he was crying.

Unbidden tears rolled down his flushed cheeks, as though they were trying to wash his hurt away. All they did was to further drown him in his shame.

The implications of this involuntary reaction of his body truly scared him to death.

He shouldn’t be crying. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

Silently, he cursed Melkor for this disaster. He cursed Melkor for ignoring him, and he cursed Melkor for being the teasing bastard that he is. And, ultimately, he cursed Melkor for making him dependent on him. For dependent he was. Nothing more than a petty little sex slave his master held no feelings for. Violently he jerked and turned on his side, angrily wiping the tears away, for how pathetic he was to even enjoy what he had done.

What truly frightened him, however, was the fact that he was still missing his master. Even now, swimming in the misery that his master forced him into.


End file.
